TRIGGER WARNING! References to substance abuse.
The world was spinning. Cullen needed lyrium.
Leaning against the ashlar wall, the Commander descended from the rampart with great difficulty.
Every part of him was out of kilter. His head felt like someone had thrown a steel spike through it and scrambled it around for a good measure. His skin was impossibly sensitive, itching to the degree of searing pain. His innards seemed to want to leave him by bursting through his stomach. His joints groaned from years of abuse, which was entirely ordinary for the seasoned warrior at this point, but still not helpful when dealing with lyrium sickness.
Even the scar above his lips throbbed. It was something he had earned from his last days in Kirkwall, and it had not been bothering him for some time. Unfortunately for the ailing man, it decided to flare up today for some reason. He wished and hoped that the ache was merely phantom. It was just another in the long list of maladies, both physical and psychological, that affected Cullen greatly, and he needed fewer of them, not more.
And then there was that thirst. The thirst for the poison that hummed such lovely and deadly songs. It always lingered like the constant need for water and air, but on days like today, it crescendoed into a frenzied mark upon his soul that buzzed endlessly. It wouldn't be gone until it was sated, but he had no intention of following its directive.
Guards were thankfully nowhere to be found, though even in his muddled state, he knew he was conflicted about their pointed absence. Showing weakness like this was beneath his position, but he could use someone to lean on.
Cullen had to find someone, anyone, before he was totally consumed by the malaise that was intrinsically eternal, everlasting. Or perpetual to his dying breath at the least.
Andraste preserve me… He hoped, prayed this would not follow him into the afterlife.
At the bottom of the stairs, he took a deep breath and put on a nonchalant façade. The Commander of the Inquisition's forces had to be in control. And breathing in the crisp autumn air seemed to calm the thirst somewhat, even if it did nothing for all kinds of physical pain that were too real. Counting the steps carefully, he traversed the length of the courtyard.
But Cullen had the misfortune to see Dorian Pavus animatedly arguing with one of many merchants who had made the courtyard their home base. Suddenly, all he saw was the image of the Tevinter and the Inquisitor together, laughing, locking lips… Getting naked… Grinding their hips and rutting… until they were well and truly fucking.
He felt his nails dig into the palms of his hands. None of it mattered to him. Free of commandership and the dark past, and brave to boot, Dorian was perfect for the Inquisitor, was he not?
The Commander knew who he had to see. And mercifully enough, he knew where she would be at this hour.
Cullen quickly bypassed the aid station and climbed another set of stairs that led to where his fading conscious was forcing him. Finally, he crashed through the door to the forge, barely hanging on to the handle. But then his knees buckled, and he fell hard. He called out faintly, "Seeker…"
With a grave face, Cassandra approached swiftly. "Is it happening again?"
"Yes."
Waving her arms impatiently, she ushered the craftsmen out. "All right. Everyone, out!" The clangs of metal died down as people filed out, murmuring amongst themselves.
Though humiliated by the feebleness of his own body and tortured by his brain's categorical refusal to let the images of Dorian and Tharin go, the Commander wasn't in a position to decline the Seeker's helping hand. With her large, warm hands guiding him, he limped toward a work bench lightly covered by the soot from the forge.
Once they were seated, Cullen did not even stop to take a breath. Instead, he urgently whispered, "You are in touch with all the possible replacements, yes?"
Thankfully, there was no patronizing remark from the Seeker ordering him to calm down. Instead, she answered forthrightly, "Yes, I've been sending general updates as a means to keep tabs on the two possible replacements." Cullen looked at her sharply, which prompted an explanation. "Nothing that's supposed to be kept secret, mind you."
"And Rylen?"
"We both agree he is capable and would be able to take over if absolutely necessary. And you can count on me to pitch in."
"Thanks."
It was only then he realized that Cassandra had been caressing his back slowly, as though that would stanch his lyrium sickness. At least the headache was subsiding slightly. Maybe she did have a magic touch.
"You are not to leave your post. Your ability to discharge your duties hasn't been affected. You are a good Commander for the Inquisition."
Cullen huffed a hollow laugh. "I don't need you to patronize me." How could he be a good Commander in this state?
With her eyebrows raised, Cassandra intoned firmly, "It's the truth. I don't lie, the least of all to you." But then, she hesitated and spoke softly, "I… would like to make a suggestion though, and I want your promise."
"My promise for what?"
"That you wouldn't get mad."
"All right. What is it you want to say?"
"You've been having these episodes rather frequently." Cassandra raised her right hand to stop Cullen from protesting. "Just enough for me to notice. That's all. As I said, your work has not suffered. But I do worry that the workload is beginning to have a negative impact on your health. So I've been thinking, maybe it would be better if I took over some of the unimportant duties, like–"
"No."
"You won't even let me finish?"
"Well, getting angry is apparently not an option, so yes. I'm cutting you off."
"Ugh. That's just childish."
"I–" Now the splitting headache was back in force and the world before him spun anew. "I honestly don't have a good retort to that. I would if my temples didn't feel like they were caving in."
With an exasperated exhale the woman continued, "I get it. You're stubborn, I'm stubborn, we are all stubborn. Hurray for us. At least consider this. The withdrawal symptoms are like any other disease. It helps to have someone you can depend on totally; someone you love by your side. Like…"
"Don't say it." Cullen wanted to sound a little more threatening, but it came out as a shaky growl.
"The Inquisitor."
Cullen glared at her ineffectively. Cassandra continued quietly as she ignored him altogether and rubbed his back, "And I do think you two care for each other. It's obvious."
"Don't start."
"Why not? And don't lie to me and say you don't have any feelings for him when you've already admitted to me as such."
"All that's in the past. I never loved him, and he certainly doesn't love me. In fact, I know he's moved on… to someone else. I just want to be a good friend for him." Three truths out of four. This should count as not lying. "Besides, my problems are not his to dwell on. The Inquisitor has enough on his plate as it is."
Cassandra grunted with disgust. "Fine, wallow in self-pity and unrequited love until you keel over." She stood up, placed her hands on the hips, and turned away, clearly agitated and frustrated. Cullen watched her until she spoke again, tersely, "Something has been going on with the Inquisitor for a while, you know. Even I can see that. I think you should have a chat with him if you still care for him."
Once upon a time, Leliana did not mind the morning sun. In fact, she preferred it above all other time of the day. But now, something about the undiluted jubilation of a bright morning bothered her. As though she were a spectator to someone's manic effort to bring cheer to entire Thedas, her mildly irritated mind kept rejecting the sunlight that filtered through the stained-glass windows.
The Spymaster now preferred the dark. The darkness of the night was all-encompassing, and it did not discriminate. In the dark, everyone was vulnerable, no matter their race, life experience, or social rank. In the dark was where her skills shone the most.
She let her annoyance at the sunshine work its way through as she ascended the stairs to the Inquisitor's loft.
It was another morning briefing hour, in which the Spymaster would drop by the young man's quarters and catch him up on the new developments that were not yet ready to be discussed at the war council. They have been at it ever since the Inquisition settled down in Skyhold at Leliana's insistence. She, of course, did not mention this, but it was also a good opportunity for her to observe Tharin in close proximity.
"Good morning, Inquisitor."
"I suppose it is, Sister."
The Inquisitor greeted her with the enthusiasm of someone who likewise did not appreciate mornings. He stretched and yawned lazily as he turned away from the fireplace. He then fastened a belt around his indigo wool night robe and rambled toward his desk. With an exaggerated sigh, the man plunked down and grabbed the stationery to take notes.
But this was a relatively unexpected departure from the usual routine. Tharin always rose before the sun was up, training for an hour with one of Cullen's templars or rarely with Cassandra. By the time the Spymaster entered the chamber, the young man would have returned from training and breakfast, washed up, changed into more formal attires, and been wide awake for at least a couple hours.
Why was today different?
"Late night?" Leliana pushed in, attempting to gather any information she could, as her bard training demanded.
"No, just… late morning. I must have been more tired than I thought."
The Spymaster paused. She could push further, but it was likely to make the Inquisitor defensive and suspicious. The pitfalls of being a spymaster, she supposed. It was inevitable that after a certain point, people caught on to the fact that she was observing them constantly, and they turned fearful. And it was counterproductive to have her allies turn fearful.
Leliana offered a rather lame piece of advice, "Perhaps you should try to go to bed earlier."
Tharin shrugged and stared at the blank piece of paper in front of him.
To be completely frank, she had other ways of finding out what Tharin had been up to. So, she decided to push ahead with the briefing. She looked down at her note and started, "I checked out the Iron Bull's lead, and it appears the Qunari are genuinely interested in an alliance with the Inquisition. It is unprecedented, to say the least."
Leliana cracked her neck and popped her digits loudly before continuing, "I think we should have Josie make a formal contact and start negotiations. They will want something first, of course."
And… the Inquisitor was somewhere else. His physical shell was certainly doing a top-notch job of sitting at the desk in his chamber, but his mind was floating somewhere far away. His eyes had that glazed, vacant look of a bored child listening to the Chant of Light.
The day just kept getting better and better.
Leliana gave the young man a few seconds before she crouched down and spoke insistently, "…Inquisitor? Inquisitor?"
When no answer came forth, she tried again with a raised voice, "Inquisitor!"
The fog seemed to lift from the young man's cobalt blue eyes. Now focused on Leliana, there was clear sense of bewilderment in his expression. "Ah, good morning, Leliana. What are you doing here?"
"I am… here to brief you, as I mentioned a minute ago. Like I always do."
"Oh, right. Apologies, I've just been… not getting enough sleep."
The Spymaster intently watched the young man and noticed a slight tremor in his hands that framed the edge of the vellum. His fingers left a single crease on the paper, a small fold that made the engraved Inquisitor's heraldry asymmetrical and thus less than perfect.
After clearing his throat, the Inquisitor croaked with affected confidence, "So, you were talking about…"
"The Qunari, yes." Leliana enunciated and elongated each word. "As I was saying, they will want something in return for their support in our operation against Corypheus. I expect it will have something to do with Tevinter, their mortal enemy."
The rest of the briefing moved along smoothly enough without another hitch, but Leliana felt progressively glum. She could not wait to get out of the Inquisitor's quarters, and as soon as she was done with the briefing, she hurried out without hanging around to chat as she was wont to do.
The Spymaster closed the door to the loft and stared straight ahead at the Inquisitor's throne. She breathed deeply, but quietly. There were too many eyes around her. She continued forward, cutting across the main hall without halting, mumbling to herself, "Damn."
Inside her was the roiling sensation of impending doom that she had not experienced for some time, not even when Haven fell. It was a sensation that she had not felt since the Conclave was wiped out and Divine Justinia was murdered.
Leliana thought back to the time when she and the Inquisitor stopped by a fruit orchard on the way back from the Vimmarks. She had eaten a wormy peach, and Tharin had dealt with his thirst. Perchance she should have confronted him then. If she had done that, this morning would not have happened the way it did.
The final harvest, it had arrived even though Leliana had not anticipated it. In retrospect, she should have. In her hand sat the bitter fruit, ripe and ready to be consumed. That fruit was hers and hers alone, much like that wormy peach, and she absolutely hated that fact.
Leliana detested being wrong. Even more than that, she detested being told by the Maker directly that she was wrong.
The mornings really were the worst time of the day.
A couple days after his fraught back-and-forth with Cassandra, Cullen was feeling much better. He could never understand how lyrium withdrawal worked: one day it was here, he would feel like everything was falling apart, the next day it was gone. If he were unlucky, it would stick around for far longer, but he felt light once it went away. Like getting over a cold, except the disease posed much more of a threat to his very existence.
In any case, the Commander had no time to mull over the specifics of the malady that affected him so terribly. He was hard at training.
Many of the veteran templars who followed him to the Inquisition did not make it to Skyhold, and some of those who survived were still recuperating, so it fell on the Commander to personally spar with the new recruits. It was a taxing and thankless job, but one that he relished.
Cullen could forget about everything and concentrate on his body's movements. His appalling failure as a tactician at Haven, the blood of innocents on his hands, idiotic political machinations, the cravings for lyrium that returned to him like migratory birds, and the endless nightmares from the dark recesses of his memory, all gone with a single swerve of the sword.
The training even helped him push away images of Tharin sparring, the face bejeweled with beads of sweat and his expression extraordinarily earnest. Just for a moment.
As the training session reached its middle, Cullen saw something in his peripheral vision and called for a break. When he turned around, he saw the Spymaster eyeing him to follow her.
Cullen casually wiped off the sweat from his chest and neck with a rag at hand and put a shirt on. Leliana was already on her way down to the dungeon and he kept the distance as he trailed her.
When the Commander finally reached the basement, the Spymaster opened the door to the outer dungeon. He crossed the threshold wordlessly and stood in the righthand corner where the masonry had collapsed. There were no prisoners, no one to eavesdrop on their conversation.
Beneath their feet roared a waterfall. Its invisible spray ascended toward Cullen's face, which was still warm from exertion, and cooled it down.
It was a long drop from the perch where they stood to the waterfall and whatever was waiting down below. Probably jagged boulders that could bash his head in and tear his limbs clean off. The Commander felt slightly dizzy and looked away.
In spite of the secluded location, the two conversed in a low tone. Or, as low as they could make without having the thunderous flow of water drown everything out.
"You summoned, Sister?"
"I need to talk to you… about a delicate matter."
"All right, what is it?"
Cullen was always direct, and he knew that Leliana was just as direct with her words, if better verbalized. It was certainly not like her to fidget but fidget she did.
"It's the Inquisitor."
"Yes?"
"What do you know about his lyrium usage?"
His lyrium usage?
"Well, if Cassandra and I are correct in our observation, he hasn't been imbibing it since he left Hasmal." One of Leliana's eyelids actually twitched. Visibly twitched. His eyes narrowed. "Or am I mistaken?"
It was like pulling teeth. This was something Cullen had never expected from the Spymaster.
"Spit it out, Leliana."
"A couple months ago, soon after we settled in Skyhold, a scout of mine reported a rumor that one of our Chantry suppliers was secretly bringing an extra cache of lyrium into the Inquisition.
Now, we are talking about a separate source from the ones we use for our templars, not accounted for in any of the requisition reports or manifests."
"I see."
"The supply chain was kept tight, and everyone was discreet. I tailed the supplier who passed it to the Quartermaster. Ser Morris waited until the day after the deliveries to pass the parcel to the Inquisitor's chambermaid, who I assume brought it to the Inquisitor hidden among her cleaning supplies. The only natural conclusion I could draw was that the Inquisitor started taking lyrium again, and so I've been observing for any adverse side effects in the following months."
Cullen could feel his face light up from fury, but bit down on his lower lip to keep calm until the end of the report. "And then what?"
"It wasn't an issue before, but it is… I'm sorry to say it, but it has become an issue of late.
The Commander glared at the Spymaster, waiting for her to continue. When he offered no other response, Leliana lightly cleared her throat and continued.
"He has been increasing the dosage without a stop. According to my calculation, every half week or so. And his dosage has reached a critical level already. It seems he doesn't plan to abate the escalation.
"Our scouts also report that he has become too overprotective during hostile encounters. In fact, he wouldn't allow many of the companions to fight at all if he could help it. The recent expedition to Emprise du Lion has been… interesting in that regard. He actually ordered Dorian – yes, the Dorian Pavus – to stay put as he took on a group of Red Templars and a giant all by himself.
"Thankfully, Dorian being Dorian, he refused to listen. Apparently, he said something sardonic to the Inquisitor and hit the Red Templars with a series of fireballs. No one was hurt."
Leliana took a small breath before finishing.
"Outside the battlefields, I don't believe the Inquisitor's demeanors have changed – he still stops to listen to anyone who wants his attention and trains hard with your soldiers. He goes out of his way to help others when he's exploring.
"He's been reading more lately too, about history, politics, commerce, magic, the sort of materials you would expect a prince to read. You must realize this from our discussion about the Grand Scheme. And his decisions are, to my knowledge, still as balanced and conscientious as ever."
The Commander could not believe his ears. Leliana, the one and only, was trying to defend her decision to keep this secret from him, trying to convince him – or herself – that everything was fine. Except everything was not fine. He would burst out laughing if not for an overwhelming desire to take his hands and throttle her.
The Spymaster continued, "But I think we've reached a point where the four of us – you, Josie, Cass, and me – need to confront him and get him off lyrium again."
Leliana paused for the briefest moment, but then added the last morsel of information. "This morning when I was reporting to him in his quarters, he forgot for a couple seconds why I was there."
The hammer hit Cullen's skull and the dull reverberation left him dizzy. He felt a pang of anxiety and despair mercilessly strike his heart.
"He smoothed it over by saying he wasn't getting enough sleep, but his hands were trembling. He was aware of what was happening to him."
It suddenly became clear to Cullen why Tharin began to use artificial scents over these past couple months. The young man knew that after months of abuse, he was wafting the pungent scent of lyrium and he would be forced to confess, unless he overwhelmed it with another scent.
Initially, Cullen had thought that lavender was a surprisingly trite choice of aroma for the young man. Turned out that lavender was really a flower of deceit.
He should have been paying more attention, especially since they mended their friendship. If he hadn't been avoiding Tharin for months, he would have known. Maker preserve him, he should have known.
"…Is this what you meant when you said he should become a hero who deserves people's affection? A lyrium-addled martyr who can't wait to throw himself in harm's way? Or better yet, maybe he could just lose himself to oblivion if he tried hard enough. It would be perfect: he would have no more troubles, or consciousness of any kind, but that's just a small price to pay for a lifetime of a blissfully ignorant existence, isn't it."
Cullen began to pace as despair sublimated into uncontrolled rage.
Leliana protested, "Of course not. I was monitoring the situation closely and knew I could rely on you and Cassandra to make the right judgment."
The Commander exploded, "Then you should have come to us sooner! You told me to stay away from him, and you knew the Seeker was bedridden and in no position to check on anyone when we first got here! You knew all this, yet you decided to endanger his life anyway!"
Despite the torrent of anguish in Cullen's words, Leliana didn't move a muscle. Cullen turned away to hide the tears welling in his eyes. His voice broke, and he wanted to punish himself for it.
"You know… You know once memory starts to fade, that is it. There is no turning back."
"Yes, I am aware."
The Commander tightly hugged himself, searching for the reassurance that he knew would not come.
"I need to get to him." Not we, but I. There was no place for Leliana in all this now. She had no right.
The woman nodded carefully. "I will post extra guards outside the Inquisitor's quarters while you talk to him. Should you need their assistance, you have but to call."
Cullen laughed grimly and glowered at the Spymaster. "That will be extremely helpful. Maybe they can grasp at the Inquisitor's pant legs if he tries to fling himself off the balcony." The shame of relapse stung like nothing else, he knew. "Because that is one of the probable results of my confronting him this late."
He felt disgusted by the sight of Leliana's tranquil expression. The woman was everything he hated: duplicity and secrets, with a dash of inhuman coldness. He abruptly turned to leave.
"I swear on everything that is holy, I will kill you if anything happens to the Inquisitor. I will plunge a dagger deep into your soulless heart and watch you bleed to death."
"Commander. If something does happen to the Inquisitor, I won't hesitate to walk into your dagger." Leliana's even voice had a glimmer of remorse as it echoed in the dungeon.
Cullen wobbled through the great hall, bumping into gathered people here and there. Murmuring empty apologies, he finally reached the door to the Inquisitor's personal quarters.
The Commander lifted his right hand to twist the doorknob, only to find his wrist frozen in place. He had to take a deep breath and press his forehead on the door to stop himself from breaking down openly in front of judgmental nobles.
His presence in the great hall alone caused quite a stir, a hulking figure clad in a well-worn shirt with grass stains, torn wool trousers, and muddy boots. He could imagine the reaction of horror if he were to punch the wall on top of it.
"Do this. Now. Do it. What are you dawdling for." Cullen mumbled over and over like reciting an incantation until he gathered enough courage to finally enter the staircase to the Inquisitor's loft. He quickly closed the door once he was on the other side, lest he was tempted to leave.
When he reached the top of the stairs, he could hear fast scratches of a quill gliding across papers. The Inquisitor, who was also the Herald of Andraste and now rightly recognized as one of the most formidable warriors in all Thedas, was hunched over piles of paperwork like some mid-level bureaucrat stuck in a stuffy office in Val Royeaux.
Bureaucracy is the lifeblood of Orlais, Cullen, a random memory of Josephine cheerfully chirping popped into his mind. Yet he was grateful, because this meant the Inquisitor did not have more pressing matters to attend to. They wouldn't be interrupted while they had this conversation.
"Pardon me, Tharin."
The Herald swiftly looked up from the reports, surprised to see someone standing in his private chamber. When he recognized Cullen, the tentative expression turned to welcoming warmth. "Cul. To what do I owe this lovely surprise?"
When Cullen did not give any indication of having heard his greeting, Tharin's face displayed mild confusion.
"May I take a seat?"
"Of course."
The Inquisitor pointed to an ornate chair facing the desk. The elaborate carvings and the showy upholstery screamed Orlesian. A new addition to the chamber, apparently.
The Commander pulled the chair near the side where the Inquisitor sat, with just enough space between the two to not alarm him. Cullen sank into the chair, grateful for something, anything to hold his suddenly exhausted body propped up. Eventually, with his courage gathered, he leaned forward and met the young man's eyes.
As soon as Cullen moved closer, he was sure he smelled lyrium – an unnaturally metallic burr that would remind inexperienced people of the ferrous stench of blood but reminded him only of lightning ripping through his sleepless nights. Now, the former Knight-Captain was aware of its presence and could not ignore the certainty. Almost entirely obscured by the floral scent, yet still there.
Cullen had hoped, but Leliana was right. She was always right.
He gazed at Tharin, because he wanted to etch into his mind every feature of the warrior's innocent face. The innocence that he feared was lost.
"I know about the lyrium cache. Leliana's found out and told me." Cullen kept his gaze on the two shimmering crystalline eyes, tinged with… irritation?
"…"
"You must stop. Please." As he implored, Cullen felt more vulnerable than he had ever felt before. He felt exposed. A sudden chill traversed his spine and he shuddered.
Tharin turned away before the Commander could extract any answer. Or an excuse. Or anything. The young man's handsome face was terrifyingly still.
When nothing came forth, Cullen asked desperately, "What could you possibly gain from taking lyrium again?"
It was a gusty day. Small particles of wispy clouds had been traversing across the high sky all day long and continually interrupted the sunlight hitting the stained glass. Sometimes the mellow incandescence would illuminate the Inquisitor's visage, sometimes it would abandon him in the shadows.
Every few seconds in the light, Cullen observed a man who seemed determined to pretend nothing was amiss. With the Inquisitor's expression completely frozen in an impassive state, Cullen wasn't certain whether he would get the answers he came for.
"Commander," a word he had not expected to hear from Tharin at that moment, which made his heart thud heavily, "I am merely fulfilling my obligation to the Inquisition. You should be proud. I'm simply doing what must be done."
The invocation of obligation dismayed Cullen, and he suppressed a desire to yell out only just. He recognized from his own experience that the kind of direct confrontation precipitated by yelling was not likely to help in this situation. Instead, he endeavored to keep his voice even when he countered, "How is taking lyrium part of your duty?"
"I am stronger with it. I fight better, I think better, and I make a better Inquisitor for it."
Yet Cullen's plan went awry nearly immediately. He could not keep his voice from rising when he said, "But it will destroy you! You know what lyrium does to a templar!"
"That is a risk I am willing to take."
These were lies. They had to be. If the young man truly believed that lyrium made him stronger and smarter, he would have had Cullen go back on that odious toxin. In fact, Cullen was now convinced that the Chantry only had the templars go on lyrium in order to control them. The Seekers did not take the potion and look at what they could do.
What was driving this man, so young, and so full of talent and potential, to lyrium addiction? What in his life could be so heinous that Tharin chose oblivion and destruction over life?
What could the Inquisitor possibly gain from this?
Cullen pondered deeply as the two men stared at each other. The blue eyes were icy and desolate, like any optimism remaining within was extinguished a long while ago. But what had wreaked this damage?
The Commander rapidly flipped through all the memories of different war room meetings, hoping to catch the moment when the young man decided to take lyrium again. It had to be something that Leliana, Josephine, and Cullen had done, perhaps some sort of Inquisition responsibility that they have deemed unavoidable. Some onerous task they conferred upon Tharin without consulting with him first. Even so, the process did not narrow the list down as much as he had hoped.
Some friend Cullen had been. As soon as they made him the Inquisitor, the advisors began piling Tharin with all kinds of responsibilities that any normal twenty-one-year-old would eschew with all his might. Instead, the young man took on everything without a word of complaint, stoic and indomitable in his acceptance. At least that was what the Commander assumed.
Perhaps that was not the entire truth. Perhaps the young man found small ways to rebel against the responsibilities, like Cullen did against the templars with his inane knick-knacks. But taking lyrium… It was beyond the pale. It was the kind of self-destructive behavior that Cullen would have never imagined Tharin partaking in. Yet here they were.
Ignoring the anxiety in his gut that came from the obvious lack of dialogue, Cullen kept thinking. What was the most abhorrent, most hideous responsibility that the advisors forced upon the Inquisitor?
Then the puzzle pieces fell into place.
"Betrothal. This is about your engagement to Princess Adelia, isn't it?"
Gone was the pensive look. Tharin's cheeks immediately bloomed crimson, but he nonetheless refused to utter a word.
Nevertheless, Cullen persisted, "Yes, that must be it. You don't believe a word you just said. You know that if you are not a mage, lyrium does not give, it takes away. Whatever strength it provides is illusory. How could you do this to yourself?"
The furious red became subdued on the young man. The Inquisitor looked broken as he susurrated, "But Cul… this is the only way."
"No, it isn't. You know it isn't." The Commander felt the directionless wrath rising in his chest again. He stood up and began pacing the length of the room, letting the anger drive his feet. A step forward, turn, another step forward, and then another… The control he sought for did come, but not enough to silence him.
"You are being incredibly imprudent. Oblivion isn't the answer to your problems! Once we defeat Corypheus, you will have options, choices. You will be able to break the engagement."
"You make it sound so simple."
"Isn't it?"
Cullen paused. He turned to face the fireplace, where a pallid fire burned weakly, sitting atop a pile of spent soot. How do you save someone teetering toward abyss? Indeed, the young man was standing at the edge of a steep precipice, gazing into the abyss. What could he see from there? Did he prefer what he saw down there than what awaited him in the realm of the living?
With an unintended accusation in his voice, Cullen seethed, "You are starting to forget things, aren't you?"
A resigned smile spread under Tharin's creased brows. "What's the use in my lying then, if you already know everything."
A massive lump rose in Cullen's throat as he rasped, "This is madness. I won't stand by and watch you throw away your life like this."
"Commander," the Inquisitor began with an unmoved tone, looking calmer than he had any right to, "Need I remind you that you have no dominion over my life? Perhaps once upon a time, before… before everything, you did rightly so, but you no longer do. I decide how I live and how I die."
Cullen was struck. His sinking heart reminded him that he had no claim over Tharin's life. Moreover, he had been thinking about death in euphemisms. Destruction. Abyss. Oblivion. When death took on a concrete form and stared him down with undoubtable precision, intact and complete, he was lost on how to evade it. He certainly could not face it head on. Instead, he veered and crashed headfirst into a wall of his own words.
"You are being irresponsible! So completely, ludicrously irresponsible! What about all the rifts that need to be closed? What about the Elder One? What about the Inquisition that needs its leader? What do we do if you are gone? What do I do if you are gone?"
Cullen knew he made a grave mistake by invoking their nonexistent relationship but could not stop. The wall of his words rose higher and higher, its precariousness obvious. It desired nothing more than to crash down on him.
He finished without thinking, "What do you think Kyr would say if he saw you right now? You can't honestly think your only love is delighted that you are slowly poisoning yourself."
The Inquisitor's face hardened. His eyes were suddenly swimming in fire. His hands balled up and Cullen half expected one of them to fly at his face. But none of them did. Instead, the Inquisitor spoke quietly.
"That's enough."
Cullen was not ready to concede defeat. No, he recognized that he made at least several mistakes in the course of the last minute, but he was not going to apologize. He methodically marched and stood in front of the Inquisitor.
"You don't know me at all if you think I will give up. One way or another, you will stop. Tharin, you–"
"Do not call me Tharin! I am the Inquisitor, your superior!" The young man thundered.
After the deluge of anger swept through swiftly, the artificial composure returned. But his blue eyes. With the fire gone, they were now positively glacial in their frostiness. Without blinking at all, the young man spat, "I appreciate your input, Commander Rutherford. Please let Sister Leliana know that I shall endeavor to make sure my lyrium intake does not take away from my performance."
Cold, professional, and unfeeling. Cullen had never seen Tharin use that tone with anyone, not even against the enemies of the Inquisition. The Commander's heart froze. He knew he had reached the end of the road here. There was to be no detour, no easy way to persuade the young man of his folly.
"…Good day, Inquisitor," Cullen mumbled and left. His footsteps leading to the great hall echoed and assaulted his own ears.
Leliana's guards did not stop Cullen as he left the Inquisitor's quarters behind. No vociferous salutes or messages from the Spymaster. Small things to be thankful for.
As he once again walked amongst the nobles in the great hall, Cullen simply refused to acknowledge their stares and murmurs. With gritted teeth, he walked on purposefully. Everything in him was screaming for lyrium, a little bit of the sweet, cyan poison to dull the knowledge that, instead of kind words that fortify, he presented Tharin with barbed invective.
But he wouldn't. He couldn't.
At every critical juncture, Tharin was there for him. The young man never skimped on encouraging words, and he was grateful for them. When he almost broke his own vow to forego lyrium, Tharin was there to stop him. Yet here he was, senselessly lobbing angry words at the Herald, the Inquisitor, his friend… His secret love.
The Commander nearly tore down the door to the dormitory. He found Ser Morris sitting at his desk dozing and shook the man awake.
"You piece of filth."
Morris yawned and stretched languidly. "Pardon me? Commander Rutherford, do you require my assistance with something?"
"How can you endanger the Inquisitor's health like that?"
"Is this about…"
"Yes, it is."
"It's what he wanted." A noncommittal nod.
"It's not good for him. Do you not understand that?"
"It is not up to me to make that judgment, Commander. It was his worship's wish."
Knowing full well that he had no sway over the matter, Cullen stared at Morris's impassive face, searching for just a hint of contrition or repentance. When there wasn't any to be found, he instead threatened Morris, like the beast pushed into a corner that he was, "Do not give the Inquisitor any more lyrium. I mean it." To this, the Quartermaster did not even raise an eyebrow.
Speechless at the man's unemotional demeanor, Cullen whirled around and slammed the door. He wanted, no, needed to be alone. He would find some peace at his tower.
After the Commander left his quarters, the Inquisitor sat rooted in his chair for a long while, not moving at all. There was a definite tremor in his Anchor hand, and he grabbed the palm with his right hand to still it to no avail. With his jaw clenched, Tharin stared straight ahead at nothing. His eyes lost focus, and everything in his view became mere blotches of colors.
The wind blew in constantly and cooled the room. The fire was gone, now just a puff of smoke rising from the cinder. The young man got on his feet and slowly walked over to the balcony door whence the gust came from. He closed one after another until his room was a self-contained unit, no air allowed to flow in or out.
With his forehead touching the cold glass pane and his hands on the door handles, he soughed. The autumnal coolness of the alpine wilderness that surrounded Skyhold calmed him considerably.
It was that time of the day.
The Inquisitor walked over to his desk, sat down, and opened the desk drawer in its middle.
Tharin yanked out his sizable lyrium kit recklessly but laid it down on the desktop gingerly. He unlocked the box and pulled out a tin container that held the dust. He could hear the honeyed voice singing from within, faint but insistent. He gazed upon it with seething hatred. He was not sure to what or to whom it was directed at.
When the container top was opened with a small pop, the singing became even louder to him. The young man could swear he was hallucinating but this was his reality now. The metallic stench was so strong that he could taste it. Or maybe that was only in his mind too. In any case, the stench became almost intolerable, but he craved it. He needed it.
Tharin unstoppered the top of an empty glass vial in the kit. He lifted a wooden spoon and gathered the dust in the tin container. A heaping mountain of poison for him. With care reserved for the most intricate of tasks he performed as the Inquisitor, he let the dust slide into the mixing vial bit by bit.
But before the spoon was bereft of the powder, he paused. There was perhaps one-tenth of the portion left on it. With a crease in his brow, he stared hard at the utensil. He could hear the horses neighing even through the closed windows. What were they crying about? They must have no care in the world. They were fed when they were hungry, and they went to sleep when they desired sleep. What did they have to be unhappy about? What?
His hand moved slowly and put back the little crest of the dust back in the tin container. He firmly screwed the lid shut and exhaled heavily. Then, he uncorked another glass vial that contained distilled water.
As he poured the water into the dust, it seemed to sparkle in the sunrays before its individual particles dissolved away. The water took on the fluorescent cyan color that was so characteristic of the solution. It was beautiful and grotesque.
When the solution stopped swirling around like a torrent, Tharin lifted the vial without any hesitation and emptied its content in his mouth. A sense of ease and certainty wrapped his body.
He was sure about everything. He was sure Cullen was wrong.
This was for the best.
This was… for Cullen.
On the way back to his office cum residence, Cullen ran into Varric.
He was about to march past him as fast as possible when the dwarf clasped Cullen's wrist with his right hand and halted him. "Whoa, whoa, easy there. Maferath's hairy balls, what's gotten you so wound up?"
"Nothing that demands your attention or expertise, Master Tethras."
One of Varric's eyebrows rose sky high, irreverence epitomized. With his hands on his hips, Varric laughed mockingly, "Ooh, Master Tethras? We're all sorts of formal today. What's going on, Commander?"
Cullen was getting a headache. "For once in your dear life, could you just leave it…"
Yet an idea occurred to him, and he managed to stop himself just in time before the inquisitive dwarf was thoroughly shouted down. He muttered belligerently, "I have a favor to ask. Follow me."
"Wow, Commander. If that's how you ask for a favor, then I don't want to know what you sound like when you are angry." Despite the snide remark, the dwarf's face remained relaxed, and he followed Cullen.
Once the two men arrived at his tower, Cullen rummaged through his desk's bottom drawer. There they were, the lyrium kit and the vials. He handed them to Varric unceremoniously and requested, "Will you dispose of these? Burn them, bury them, chuck them from the rampart, I don't care."
Varric's relaxed expression became hardened. "This is all templar lyrium stuff, isn't it?"
"Yes."
The two men wordlessly stared at each other. Varric seemed to be searching, trying to comprehend what was happening, what the Commander was thinking. But when the dwarf nodded carefully and acceptance came, it was complete, and Cullen was grateful.
"All right, consider it done," declared the dwarf magnanimously as he closed the door.
Cullen had a new nightmare that night.
He was standing on a snow-covered alleyway in… Kirkwall? But it did not feel quite like Kirkwall.
Was it somewhere else in the Free Marches? Ferelden? Orlais? He couldn't ascertain even that. It was some place familiar and strange all at the same time.
In front of him sat a beggar, who was covered in thin rags barely clinging to his emaciated body. His hair was full of dandruff and snowfall, and his face was obscured by a thick, disheveled beard. His feet were blue, looking as though he was suffering from frostbite. Yet the man indicated no signs of pain.
The vagrant took notice of Cullen and crawled to him sluggishly. "Messere, have you any… magic dust? Maybe some coins for me?" He paused, apparently waiting for the other man's answer.
Cullen knew him but could not place his face. The beggar started again in a slurred tone, "I will do anything. You want me to suck you off? I am real good with cocks."
Cullen felt his heart drop. The beggar was Tharin. His piercing cobalt eyes were gone, replaced with dull grayish blue irises that showed no soul. The whites of his eyes were no longer white, but sickly yellow; the dilated pupils were terrifyingly lightless. His face was full of wrinkles and scabs. His sturdy muscles were all but gone, only skin loosely hanging from his bones now. Cullen did not know where to start. He simply called out his name, "Tharin…!"
The beggar cocked his head and asked, "Who's that?"
Two shadowy figures suddenly appeared and dragged the vagrant through a door that did not exist before. Cullen stumbled trying to follow them. Behind the doorway was a tavern, filled with the same gray, faceless figures that raped him at the Circle Tower. Cullen felt terrified, but he had to enter. He had to save Tharin.
Even though the figures lacked faces, it was obvious they were enjoying themselves. Drinks were flowing freely, laughter was wafting through the air, and a song was playing. A raunchy Rivaini song with strong beats that one could dance the most salacious dance to. The figures began to taunt the beggar, telling him to dance for coins, for lyrium, for ale, for scraps of food.
Cullen interjected, stood in front of the beggar, and tried to shield him, "Stop! Don't you know who this man is? This is the Inquisitor! The Herald of Andraste! He saved you! He saved all of us!"
There was no stopping. The music sped up and the vagrant tried to keep up with the rhythm, only to lose his balance and topple to the ground like a worthless heap of rags. A raucous laughter rose from the audience.
It was at that moment the beggar's eyes finally met Cullen's. There was no Tharin left. He was drooling and smiling like a happy fool that he was, just a husk of the man he once was.
Suddenly, Cullen was holding a dagger. He wailed in pain as he thrust the dagger deep into the beggar's jugular. Nauseating puce-colored blood spattered everywhere, coating Cullen and the figures. The faceless monsters cackled even louder. The dull eyes glazed over, confirming for certain that the man was dead. He killed Tharin. It was the best he could do.
When Cullen's eyes flew open, he could only see darkness above his bed. Moonlight was shining through the holes in his roof. He was in Skyhold.
He was panting like he had just raced up the stairs to his tower. The man had never been more grateful that what he saw was just a nightmare. But the images he saw… They were forever engraved into his brain, waiting for another moment of weakness to torture him.
Cullen did not bother covering his face as he wept.
END NOTE
So, here we are. The secret that had been festering for eight chapters exposed. And darkness continues to call forth to Tharin.
If you have a hankering for additional servings of whump (and possibly gore), check out my one-shot, A Temporal Sin at *AO3*/works/32198431. It follows the events of Honor and Will.
As for the hiatus, Honor and Will will be put on pause for two months. The next chapter will be posted on Sunday, August 29, 2021. Until then, take care! In the meantime, please check out Where the Waves Crest (波の上り詰める所), my Japan AU fic!